Booker forced out a breath when she pulled him into a sudden hug, squeezing him tightly. Surprise gave way to a quiet laugh from his chest and he put his arm around her shoulders. Lightly, uncertain, but still…

Stepping back, Elizabeth smiled up at Booker, her father – for better or worse. “Come on, Booker, you need rest.”

He grimaced but followed, led by her arm wrapped around his now. “Elizabeth, please, I’ve had worse hangovers than–”

“Which is exactly why you need your rest,” she finished his sentence, taking her arm away from his beside a bed next to Jack. They may not have existed at all other than a short pause in his strumming the guitar.

Booker sighed and sat on the bed, glancing up at Elizabeth. “You’re a little more north of forty than you used to be,” she teased half-heartedly and Booker only nodded to Jack.

Elizabeth’s fingers ran over the metal stump of her pinky instinctively as she walked over to him, the folksy guitar music continuing. Her arms slid over his shoulders, which she felt tensing beneath her as her hands met in front of his chest. A comfortable warmth radiated between them and the music trailed off.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “for getting Booker home safely.” He nodded stiffly and Elizabeth moved back, putting the bag on the table between the two beds. “So,” she started, trying to break the silence. “Has anyone come upon our hideout while I was away? And how are the girls? I’m sure the explosions can be felt down here.”

“Hm,” Booker mused aloud. “I was in and out the past few hours. Can’t say I noticed much of anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the bag wearily while she sorted through it.

Must’ve felt worse than he let on to be too tired even to get patched up.

“You can feel them,” Jack answered softly. “But the explosions won’t hurt us here. No one can find us.” He spoke over his shoulder and stayed facing away. His voice was authoritative in a way… of one trying to convince himself.